The Rendezvous in the Reverie
by St.Hedwig
Summary: Coma!verse Bren and Booth are a happily married couple expecting their first child…However did they end up here?
1. Bad Seafood

Title: The Rendezvous in the Reverie

Rating: M (some swearing, casual alcohol consumption, gambling, and sexual situations)

Summary: Coma!verse Bren and Booth are a happily married couple expecting their first child…However did they end up here?

Spoilers: Definitely for Season 4 finale, I'll be trying to weave in other bits and pieces including bits from the 100th, "The woman in the sand", and many, many others.

Disclaimer: Bones is not mine, the coma!verse is not mine. I have a tendency to steal names from other fictional worlds – I don't have a claim on those either.

AN: I'm ignorant: I don't know how to operate a nightclub, I've never applied for a small business loan, I'm clueless as to the military leave system, and I've never actually been in a casino. I have no desire to research for a fic that I write for my own pleasure and not profit. However, if a reviewer wants to educate (or beta) me, feel free.

Chapter the First

_In which Seeley Booth either meets 'the one' or eats some bad seafood_

Atlantic City:

He's on fire, winning like crazy and has been for the past seven hours. He's not sure how much he's up, but it's a lot. Winning is a good feeling, exhilarating without the coppery undertones that come from firing a gun or searching for rebels. He's placing bets based on that feeling he trusts in the field, the squeezing in his gut that tells him to duck, or the hard knot in his rib cage, when he _knows_ it was _his_ shot.

He looks up from the roulette wheel for inspiration, and finds it. There's a woman squeezing through with a couple of drinks, and she's a knock-out. He does what any man would do and hits on her. "When's your birthday?" he blurts out, a hand on her arm to get her attention.

"Excuse me?" she says as she turns into him in the crowded space.

"Just…when's your birthday?" he has a light grip on her wrist, as her hand has the stem of a wine glass in it.

"November twenty seventh," she answers, with a blue-gray, well-practiced stare urging him to drop her wrist. He does, as he places his bets on the eleven and twenty seven.

-X-

She takes the opportunity to escape to the black jack, where Nicole (call me Nikki for the weekend) is waiting for her screwdriver. Temperance sips her red wine slowly while watching Nikki, the crowd, and absently counting the cards. It's not really her fault; if she does it automatically is it? Her memory is excellent; her brother stopped playing Memory with her when she was five and strategy card games when she was seven – and he's six years older.

She read a few books on gambling strategy before coming to Atlantic City – being smart has never failed her before, and she doesn't want to empty her bank account because adrenaline is racing through her. She started the night with $200 dollars worth of chips; that's what she budgeted for a day of gambling. She's only been gambling for a couple hours, but she's up. She takes Nikki's place ten minutes later, and uses her knowledge of what's statistically likely to place the appropriate bets.

-X-

Seeley Booth is calling himself all kinds of a fool for letting a woman that stunning walk away _before_ getting more than her birthday. He had just won on twenty seven, and excitedly turned to congratulate his new good luck charm, only to find her gone. His gut had done a very distinctive flop at the sight of November 27th, and he _had_ to find her again. Dark hair, blue-gray eyes, and hot body in a black dress are all he has to go on.

He carefully scans the casino floor, methodically searching. He's just beginning to worry that she left the casino - his chances of finding her if that's the case are practically zero, when he spots her sitting at a blackjack table, pile of chips at her elbow and absently swirling the glass of wine she was carrying earlier. He stands at the edge of the slots for nearly a minute, trying to compose himself before approaching her.

-X-

Temperance is aware of someone standing just behind her and to the right, the heat from his body obvious. After nearly two minutes with this person just standing there, staring, she turns and says, "I'm not planning on giving up my seat anytime soon."

"I don't want your seat." At her quizzical look he elaborates, "I want more than your birthday, I want your name and I want to buy you a drink," at her unconvinced look he continues, "I make it a point to meet my good luck charm."

"I think they have good luck charms for hire," she says so dryly that he has to laugh.

"Well allow me to be your good luck charm and drink fetcher while you play." She permits him to stay at her elbow and flirt while he waits for her to empty her wine glass.

-X-

Temperance is nursing her wine, partially because this man dancing attendance on her is _hot_, and she wants him to stay at her elbow, and partially because she's in a strange city in a thrift shop little black dress that's technically a size too small. ("You have to get it sweetie, it just screams 'looking for a good time' – and that _is_ why you're going to Atlantic City," Angela had told her when she emerged from the dressing room at Elite Repeat.)

Her roommate, Debbie, emerging from the slots notices the hot man at her side and word spreads within the group. Just about everybody who loaded into cars for Atlantic City casually saunters past in a twenty minute period and either winks or gives her a 'thumbs up.' She tilts her head in acknowledgement, and he catches on surprisingly fast – giving his own winks back to her traveling companions. He asks their names, and she tells him in between her turns at blackjack.

Many of them are friends of friends, or more accurately, friends of Shelly, her other roommate who organized this - she knows little more than their names. She points out Debbie and Shelly, who share a three bedroom apartment with her in DC (thank God they're female is his main thought) and Angela, the friend that convinced her to wear the thrift shop little black dress and who adds a strange little celebratory dance to the wink and thumbs up when she spots them.

He shares that he's in the Army, on a short leave and he and some buddies decided to spend their four days in Atlantic City. ("Deuce said, 'Fuck Vegas – I've spent the last two years in a fuckin' desert – I'm not going to Vegas in August'" he imitated with a southern twang, making her laugh.)

-X-

Finally, finally they exchange names. "I can't call someone I met in Atlantic City Temperance – I'm afraid you'll have to be Bren as I don't know you well enough yet to come up with a clever nickname."

"Well if we're going by last names, I suppose I'll have to call you Booth."

"'S'alright with me – never much cared for Seeley," he answers with a grin. She's _still_ nursing that glass of wine and winning at blackjack, and he's getting thirsty from talking, but is loath to break the moment by getting a drink for himself, all of which adds up to him snagging her wine glass and taking a sip. There's something surprisingly intimate about placing his lips on the rim of the glass were hers had been, tasting her choice of wine and the slightest hint of wax from her red lipstick.

She raises an eyebrow (how the _hell_ is disapproval hot), but doesn't object. She plucks the wine from his fingers and takes her own sip and… oh man does it take a few cleansing breaths to remind his dick that now is not the time.

The man to her right leaves the table, probably tired of his hovering and their flirting, and he takes the seat. They continue to switch off with the wine.

-X-

His playing style frustrates her. She's pretty sure he's not counting cards, because some of his bets don't make logical sense, but he still manages to end up in the positive. His not touching also frustrates her. He stood close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him; his hands ghosted along her shoulders and sides as he flirted, but he's only touched her wrist and brushed her fingers as they exchange the wine glass, and damn it she wants more.

He drains the wine glass, and it sits between them, empty. Their forearms are resting on the felt table, less than an inch between them. (Should that make her breath catch?) She's losing interest in the game, and he notices this and says, "Let's get that drink;" they leave the table together to wander the floor.

He does buy her a drink – another red wine, but he takes the first sip before handing it to her. She doesn't mind the possessive gesture, and wonders if it's because she's acting like someone else in Atlantic City – wearing a little black dress and flirting with a stranger, or because it's this particular stranger.

-X-

They end up at a craps table, where they switch off throwing the dice, brushing against each other as they do. Seeley Booth's gut has been working overtime. It flips. It flops. It clenches. There are knots and butterflies; he wouldn't be surprised if a small creature came ripping out of his abdomen. Winning was exhilarating, but it could have just as easily been losing, and anyway money isn't of any real use when you're deployed. Winning a girl like Bren is much more interesting than winning money.

-X-

She's playing strategy, and he's paying attention to her – which is gratifying because his pile of chips is getting larger and larger and he's treating the chips as bits of plastic rather than the large sum of money they represent. After craps, they wander to the buffet to get food. They eat the seafood together; his army buddies and her traveling companions stop by to admire the fine specimen their friend has managed to find. She responds to his Army buddies with an arched eyebrow, he with a shit-eating grin. She rolls her eyes at her friends; he gives them the same grin.

She's the one who drags him up for dancing, happy that his damn hands will actually touch her rather than the back of her chair. They stay appropriately on her lower and mid-back, hers rest at his shoulders. When the band switches to a song that requires more than swaying she tries to sit down. He drags her to a corner of the dance floor and proceeds to teach her the very basic steps. It's a lot of fun, and she catches on very quickly. They dance together well, although he feels underdressed and scruffy next to Bren in her dress and smoky eye-makeup.

-X-

They wander across the floor, gambling for a while before moving on. He wins at roulette on her birthday again; she doesn't play (the worst odds in the house). They play a little slot, watch the poker. Eventually he's too tired to stand up, and they end up at blackjack, both unwilling to go to bed and end the evening. It's two am, and they're leaning against each other at the blackjack table, too exhausted to even sit up properly. "What are you doing tomorrow?" he asks.

"The Boardwalk," she answers with a yawn, "And you?"

"Following you until you kick my ass."

"I'm leaving by ten."

"I'll be in the lobby, waiting," he replies.

-X-

AN: I've staked out this little corner of the Bones sandbox, so come muck about with me. We will build much bigger sandcastles together – on that note, I need a beta. I shower all betas with cookies, gratitude, and electronic spankings (only if you want it…).

Please, please review – praise, criticism, what you had for breakfast… I don't care; I just want to see reviews in my inbox.


	2. Love Sick Puppy

Title: The Rendezvous in the Reverie

Rating: M (some swearing, casual alcohol consumption, gambling, and sexual situations)

Summary: Coma!verse Bren and Booth are a happily married couple expecting their first child…However did they end up here?

Spoilers: Definitely for Season 4 finale, I'll be trying to weave in other bits and pieces including bits from the 100th, "The woman in the sand", and many, many others.

Disclaimer: Bones is not mine, the coma!verse is not mine. I have a tendency to steal names from other fictional worlds – I don't have a claim on those either.

AN: Thanks to the lovely LondonLi for beta-ing; and Chelmazing for gamma-ing – I take responsibility for all remaining errors.

-X-

Chapter the Second

_In which Booth is a love sick puppy_

He's waiting in the lobby by 9:45, giddy at the thought of seeing her again. The three others sharing his room had given him shit last night ("You gay or something?") for not sealing the deal. But Bren's special. She deserves more than a quickie in whatever privacy they can find when they're both sharing a hotel room with three others.

She enters the lobby, glancing around - trying to spot him without being obvious. Booth gets her attention as he approaches her; he notices that even in Capri's, a t-shirt, and sandals she looks _damn _good.

He's content to spend the day simply strolling at her side, but doesn't expect to _enjoy_ walking the boardwalk. Based on experience with past girlfriends (he can't call her his girlfriend yet, can he?) he expects to trail behind her as she purchases tacky souvenirs for everybody she knows, and braces himself accordingly for a long day.

-X-

Bren surprises him. They spend a lovely morning poking through the little tourist shops, making fun of the snow globes and shot glasses. They wander; she doesn't need to inspect the entirety of the store before exiting. Her mission is not to see as much merchandise in as many stores as possible in this shopping excursion, but to spend the day relaxing with Booth – not buying kitschy, over-priced trinkets. He buys two disposable cameras; she doesn't comment when the same camera is fifty cents cheaper in a later store. She buys a couple of postcards.

-X-

His disposable camera is filling quickly; all his shots are focused on her. She finds it unnerving. Angela would probably say having a man's complete attention on her was the natural order of things, but this is not the case in Temperance's experience…

She refocuses: that's history and Booth is in the here and now. She brings her attention back to tourist shops and the hot, sweetheart of a man shadowing her, but a niggle of uncertainty, whispering, 'this is too good to be true,' remains.

-X-

They break for lunch when they pass an absolutely delectable aroma wafting from a food stand. They eat at a slightly sticky outdoor table. She buys, and he doesn't put up a fuss. They both ended last night with a large stack of chips – he senses that displays of wealth would not impress her normally, and will especially not impress her when 'wealth' started out as $35. As he finishes his second burger, she pulls a pen out of her purse, and writes a few sentences on each postcard she's purchased before addressing them.

"Am I mentioned on any of those?" he asks, indicating the postcards.

"No." At his slightly wounded expression she explains further. "These two are for Haley and Emma – my nieces. This one is for my parents, and this one is going on the giant wall of postcards in my old school, so no. Don't worry, when I write Mama I'll be sure to mention the army man I met in Atlantic City."

"You write home?"

"They don't like long distance phone calls that last longer than two minutes, and they don't have internet," she explains looking faintly embarrassed.

"When I'm overseas I write to Pops, my granddad, once a week," he tells her. That clears the defensive look from her face, and they spend a happy half hour swapping tales about their families, sitting at a sun-bleached plastic picnic table that probably hasn't been cleaned since June.

-X-

The vendor urges them along; Booth wisely doesn't make fun of her when, after wiping her greasy fingers clean, she pulls sunscreen out of her purse and lathers up, carefully covering her face, neck, ears, and arms. (Michael _always_ commented sarcastically on her fair skin) She misses a spot, and he smoothes the little smudge of whiteness into her temple, making her breath catch. She retaliates by caressing the back of his neck, wiping the excess sunscreen off her left hand. He'll have the outline of her handprint there, though neither knows that yet.

-X-

On his insistence, they approach a street artist who charges him fifteen dollars for a quick sketch of the two of them. The sketch makes them both look a little more love-sick than they're comfortable with, and the drawing is quickly rolled and stored in her bag.

They linger by the street musicians, both enjoying the talent displayed. He is surprised at her appreciation of the musicians – she always throws something into their open cases. "I wanted to be a musician when I was small, but it never happened," is her explanation. He knows the feeling. A lot of things never happened for him because of money or because he was shuffled from his Mom's to Pop's and back again, and he briefly mentions this as they walk.

The intimate, introspective moment is broken when he spots an arcade and eagerly drags her into it. They both enjoy it. They spend two hours there, burning through quarters as they competitively try and beat each other at a racing game and air hockey. He finds Joust, a two player game that requires cooperation, tucked into a corner. They have fun trying to work together. Occasionally one will unseat the other, which of course requires retribution, but after a couple of dollars they've learned that forgiving the accidents is necessary if they want to advance. There's probably a larger life metaphor in there, but he's enjoying the day too much to search for it now.

-X-

As the day wears on, he touches her more: an arm around her shoulders, a hand at her lower back, a nudge from his shoulder. At the arcade, they play with their sides pressed together. They leave the arcade with their elbows linked.

At about five, she drags him into a clothing store where he sits as she shops. It is the first time that day he wishes they were doing something else, and that cheers him immensely. She buys a cotton dress, chiding herself all the while for the waste, because there won't be other opportunities to wear it. At least she found it on the close-out rack and gets a deal. Less than twenty minutes later she's wearing it out of the store, her Capri's and t-shirt folded in her shopping bag. "Now I'm dressed for dinner," she says as they leave the store.

"Are you hungry?" he asks.

"Not quite yet." He likes this – her assumption that they will go to dinner, no need to act coy or make him prove his interest when it's been obvious since the roulette last night. They amble back the way they came, stopping to read the menus posted outside the restaurants. They discuss the pros and cons as they walk – she dismisses a few as wastefully expensive, and shares that Italian is too cliché when they're right on the ocean and the seafood would be fresh. He whines that the Tapas bar just doesn't provide enough food. They end up in a seafood restaurant when he starts pouting about his hunger, enjoying some truly excellent fish and lobster.

-X-

They linger over their meals, exchanging bites and sharing a dessert, and then end up in a bar where they nurse beers (separate this time) and play pool. He's better, but she's a decent player and competitive; she's not afraid to take advantage of the fact that Booth is very distracted when he watches her bend over the pool table. He shows her a new technique as an excuse to step behind her and mold his body to hers, meaning both are preoccupied with the close contact. He does win, but she makes him work for it. They leave the bar after one game of pool and a beer apiece and walk towards the casino again.

It's been ten minutes of slow walking, an arm around her shoulders and his waist, when she pushes him against a railing and knocks the breath out of him. Then her lips are reaching towards his and the bruise forming in the middle of his back doesn't even register, because he's wanted to kiss her since he grabbed her wrist and asked her birthday. The first kiss bleeds into a second, then a third, and then they both stop counting and just _feel_. His hands move from her hair to her lower back. Her left stays at the nape of his neck where the smeared outline of her hand from excess sunscreen is visible while her other hand roams. When their lips are raw, she pulls away. They begin walking again, practically melting into each other. They stop twice more on the walk back to make out, each time ending breathless and plastered together.

-X-

In her experience, kisses this passionate lead to truly mind-blowing orgasms. Ideally, she knows her sexual partners well before engaging in intercourse, but she's willing to make a lot of exceptions for Booth. She's figuring out the logistics of getting her roommates to give Booth and her privacy in between the mind-blowing kisses, a little shocked that she's planning on dragging someone she's known for 28 hours away for sex.

He holds the door to the Hotel/Casino lobby open for her, but she's mystified when he leads her through the casino and to the dance floor instead of somewhere with privacy. Her confusion is met with an explanation breathed into her ear, "I'm a gentleman Bren. Enjoy the dancing." She pouts (adorably) that they have differing expectations for tonight's conclusion, but has little choice, and does indeed enjoy dancing with him.

-X-

He's now known her for a day. She's smart (and hot) and doesn't put up with shit, a lot more rational then he is. He's that guy. The one that meets her and _knows_. Not trying to find privacy, especially with the attraction between them has probably thrown her off balance, intrigued her. He'll do whatever he can to increase the odds of seeing her after his next tour is finished, even if it means forgoing certain things now. When, or even _if,_ they have sex, he wants to have plenty of time to do it properly; enough to wake up together in the morning, enough to make sure it happens the next day, and the next.

-X-

"You have a fascination with my neck," Booth observes, a dozen songs later.

"I like the handprint," she replies before tipping her head back and kissing the underside of his jaw. She does like the handprint – more than is probably wise. It lays claim to Booth; something that she's never done before.

He'll be a little amused and annoyed when he finds the sunburned outline in the bathroom mirror later tonight. Mostly though, he'll like it.

-X-

At the next slow song, as they rock back and forth in a loose embrace, she blurts out, "We're going to the beach tomorrow. It was going to be today, but it'll be warmer tomorrow-"

"What time?" he cuts her off, "And what does your swim suit look like?" he adds with a teasing lecherous grin.

"Nine and you'll have to wait until tomorrow." She has a sudden desire to trade her sensible black with a white stripe one piece for a bikini set. Unfortunately, she didn't think of it when they were walking the boardwalk, and none of the three women on the trip she feels comfortable enough with to borrow a swim suit share her body type.

-X-

They dance until past midnight, taking a few breaks to rest their feet. She spends the songs they sit out perched on his lap. He walks her to the elevator in the lobby and kisses her relatively chastely goodnight when they're both stumbling rather than dancing from a combination of alcohol and exhaustion. "I'll see you tomorrow," he tells her as the elevator doors close.

-X-

"If you need us to vacate the room for an hour or two…"

"He is _hot_, you better dish the details."

"We haven't had intercourse," she says in a dry, clinical voice.

Her roommates for the extended weekend sputter. Jody recovers the fastest. "Why the hell not? If a man with an ass like that followed me around like a little lost puppy, I wouldn't leave the hotel room."

"I bet his stamina is great, those muscles…" Angela adds. They don't seem to need her in order to speculate, Temperance muses as she gets ready for bed, although Booth's musculature _is_ impressive.

-X-

Word spreads among Booth's army buddies – more accurately two words: 'girls' and 'bikinis.' About half adjust their plans from gambling to hitting the beach. By nine the next morning there is quite a crowd in the lobby.

-X-

AN: I live for reviews. Scientific fact, a small part of my brain shrivels up without feedback. (I call it 'the bit that urges me to churn out stories'). Nope, not holding the story hostage, not at all, nothing to see here officer. I have upcoming RL, so don't expect the next chapter nearly as quickly.


	3. Benefits of Sunscreen

Title: The Rendezvous in the Reverie

Rating: M (some swearing, casual alcohol consumption, gambling, and sexual situations)

Summary: Coma!verse Bren and Booth are a happily married couple expecting their first child…However did they end up here?

Spoilers: Definitely for Season 4 finale, I'll be trying to weave in other bits and pieces including bits from the 100th, "The woman in the sand", and many, many others.

Disclaimer: Bones is not mine, the coma!verse is not mine. I have a tendency to steal names from other fictional worlds – I don't have a claim on those either.

AN: Um, yeah, about that wait – Sorry? Unfortunately, in addition to RL, I'm lazy and a perfectionist. I have issues regarding releasing my work for public consumption. Exhibit A: a post rate of about 5% of what I write.

-X-

Remember, they're heading to the beach…

-X-

Chapter the Third

_In which Booth is Introduced to the Benefits of Sunscreen_

-X-

Temperance is disappointed to spot Booth in a t-shirt the next morning, but cheers herself up by thinking that he'll soon have to take it off. The group loiters in the lobby for a few minutes, the women surrounded by their luggage as the group gathers.

-X-

Booth and Bren are standing nose to nose, arguing about the harmful effects of UVA and UVB rays and the benefits of waterproof at least SPF 15 sunscreen, ignoring everything and everyone else in the lobby. She wins the argument, mostly because, "I'll rub it all over you" and "I like the handprint. If you're sunburnt, it will disappear." Her smug smile at winning falters when he grabs her hand and awards her a quick kiss that takes her right back to last night.

The group finally gets moving once the bickering pair begins walking, hand in hand. About thirty people trail them as they go first to the parking lot to load the girls' suitcases, and then across the boardwalk and down a set of stairs to the beach, the whole ensemble like ducklings following their parents to the water.

Angela jumps on the opportunity to walk on the other side of Booth and ask questions - "How often do you work out? Sex is great cardiovascular exercise, my personal trainer said," and "I hope your intentions towards our Tempe are steamy," as they walk. He teases her back and Bren glares at Angela, a pink tinge creeping up her neck. She's glad when they reach the beach and Ange ceases her questions in favor of laying out a towel.

-X-

Bren is wearing a white dress-like thing that turns translucent when the sun backlights her. She spreads her towel and situates her beach bag before whipping off her swim suit cover. He mutters, "Thank you God," at the sight of her body encased in her one piece swim suit, certain that he's never seen a more perfect female form. She tugs his t-shirt off and pushes him down on her towel while he's in a daze.

She has a pool of cool, greasy sunscreen on his abdomen, causing the muscles to jump, before he's recovered his wits. Her little hands start with his face, massaging the lotion into his forehead, moving down the bridge of his nose, then smoothing it over his cheeks. When she runs out, she dips her fingers in the pool on his stomach. Her massage of his ears is a little strange, but mostly erotic. Her interest in his muscles as she moves down is gratifying; less so is that wherever she touches involuntarily twitches as she coats him with sunscreen. She starts to trail sunscreen coated fingers just under the waistband of his swim trunks before he catches her wrist. She pouts as he does the last little section of his abdomen and his upper thighs, but she does slather sunscreen onto his legs.

At her urging, he flips, and she repeats the process on his back, her admiring gaze and fascination with his musculature less hidden with Booth facing away from her. She ends with a caress to the nape of his neck – a spot she already thinks of as hers. "Jesus Christ, Bren," he groans as he levers himself up and grabs the sunscreen bottle. She lies on her back and waits for him to start, a challenge – will he be as daring as she – in her eyes.

He begins with her feet – the attention he pays first to the left then the right has her moaning in appreciation. He moves up her legs, stopping an inch short of her swimsuit before moving to her arms and ending with her face. Her frank swipes under the edge of her suit to cover the places he skipped have him silently cursing his need to tread carefully with something that feels this precious.

She flips, and he starts at the nape of her neck before massaging her ears, avoiding the small silver earrings. He carefully lathers her shoulders and slowly, sensually rubs the sunscreen onto her exposed back. He does the back of her legs, ending with a foot rubdown.

Sometime later, she gently kicks his questing fingers away before standing up and pulling him with her. She's surprisingly strong, he thinks as she levers him up. They walk hand in hand down the beach to the water.

-X-

They splash in the waves like little children, bob like corks a little deeper, find shells and rocks as they play in the salt water. She swims like a fish – and he hears about summers spent in the public pool in her small Ohio hometown as they bob in the surf. He tells her about learning to swim, and the few times he went to the shore as a child. She talks about tides and surf and how chlorinated pools just don't compare to the ocean.

Nearly two hours later, they tramp out of the ocean, dripping salt water as they walk up the beach. He finally spreads his towel and lays down to dry in the sun; she surprises him when she pulls out the sunscreen and begins to reapply it.

"You put that on me just two hours ago."

"Even waterproof sunscreen washes off, and should be reapplied once you get out of the water."

"You just want an excuse to slather lotion on my hot, nearly naked body."

"I could always apply my own lotion and let you burn."

"No, no sunscreen is very important," he quickly asserts.

This time when she reaches his swim trunks, he doesn't grab Bren's wrist, and her fingers swipe just under the waistband. After she's done, he slathers her with sunscreen, and dips under the edges of her suit in most places – she just needs to apply a dollop to her inner thighs. They lay in the sun facing each other on their towels. He starts to fidget after fifteen minutes – inactivity suits neither, and hops up to get an ice cream and lemonade. They alternate bites and sips, passing the cone and cup back and forth. After their unhealthy lunch, she pulls a Frisbee out of her beach bag.

They toss it back and forth, collecting his army buddies and some of the girls as they move down the beach. He shows off a little, his natural athleticism coming to the fore as he seemingly effortlessly flicks the disk and twists to catch it. She admires his abdomen, arms, and chest in between making her own catches and throws. He admires the way her curves bounce and the hint of muscle in her arms and legs as they play.

-X-

When the game breaks up and they're back on the towels, he holds up the sunscreen bottle and asks with a waggle of his eyebrows, "Do we need to reapply after strenuous exercise?"

"If you want," she says, her eager tone contradicting the indifferent words. They reapply sunscreen for the third time, and it's barely one. Booth settles back on his towel to nap, and Bren pulls a murder mystery by J. Hodgins out of her bag and begins to read holding the book over her head. Before she finishes the first chapter her arms grow tired, so she flips to her stomach.

Mid-way through the second chapter her spine is aching from the odd positioning; she tries leaning into Booth's chest, using his stomach as a prop for The Black Widow. He shifts in his sleep a bit, but remains asleep as Bren plows through the mystery. He wakes up when she's two thirds of the way through her book, and is very amused to see that they are _snuggled_ (there is no other word for it) together.

He makes it his mission to distract her, and begins by tracing his finger up and down her arm, his other hand tracing shapes on her stomach. She turns the pages very quickly to begin with, but her pace slows as her reading stalls due to the sensations radiating from where his hands rest on her skin. She holds out for nearly a chapter, then tosses her book aside, splays her fingers on his stomach, hitches herself up, and kisses him quite thoroughly while draped across him. They ignore the whistles and catcalls from their friends, gulp air, and come together for another kiss and then again and again. They split apart, sputtering only after Angela tosses the dregs of a lemonade, complete with ice onto them.

"This is a family beach. You're scaring the children," Angela says with a smirk.

There are quite a few people staring at them, including an adorable little boy who asks, "Mommy why were they wrestling?" Booth stands up, offers a hand to Brennan, and they walk to the ocean to rinse off with as much dignity as they can muster, considering the guffawing onlookers, flustered mother, and curious child.

-X-

They go out into the surf until Bren can barely touch and the swell of the waves hides them from view most of the times. They resume kissing – hungry, deep kisses that leave the sensible part of him grateful she's in a one piece – he'd have her topless on a public beach if a tie or clasp was all that was stopping him, and the way she's caressing him, he doubts she'd object.

A particularly strong wave knocks them over, but despite the dunking their enthusiasm is not dampened. Once they right themselves, she wraps her legs around his middle so her head is above his. The extra weight keeps him anchoredHe; he appreciates her genius when applied to the logistics of kissing him.

They break apart, gasping and grinning. He's pretty sure they're killing brain cells due to lack of oxygen, but somehow can't bring himself to care. She slides down from her perch and gives him shallower, softer kisses before slipping from his embrace and diving under and away. He follows, cutting through the water with strong strokes. Eventually he catches her, and she awards him a mind-blowing kiss before slipping away again. Booth grins while chasing after her: he likes this game.

He likes this playful woman.

-X-

They come splashing out of the water much later. Booth rummages in her bag and pulls out the sunscreen, holding the plastic bottle triumphantly with a gleam in his eye. He applies it to her and she returns the favor for the fourth time that day. After a little more sun bathing, Shelly regretfully reminds everyone that they have a lot of driving ahead of them. The group of girls minus Tempe packs up and heads towards the casino; Booth's army buddies follow.

The pair is not yet ready to move. Though they are hungry, neither want to break the skin to skin contact or end this moment. The sun sinks lower in the sky as they lay pressed together on his beach towel, sometimes in silence, sometimes conversing. Bren snags her towel as it's getting colder and drapes it over both of them, snuggling further into his embrace. They stay until the sun is nearly gone and it's half dark but for the lights from the casino and boardwalk behind them. They gather their things and head towards the casino/hotel, leaning into each other and agreeing to dinner at the casino as they walk.

Booth catches an elevator up to his room to clean up before dinner, while Bren stops at the front desk and checks for available rooms. Booth returns just as she is handed her room key, and they head to the casual restaurant together.

They hold hands across the table while waiting for their food, and their knees touch through the meal. "I have to leave tomorrow. I was going to leave tonight, but…" she cuts herself of, not wanting to say, 'you're still here,' when she's only known him for two and a half days and they haven't even had sex. (Yet - her mind adds.)

He hears it anyway. "I need to be back at base by tomorrow night."

"Let me drive you."

"Alright."

-X-

They head to her car to retrieve her luggage after finishing dessert, squabbling (I don't like pie) (But I ate some of your chocolate moouse, you should at least try my pie). He kisses her just outside the hotel doors leading to the parking lot, and again, pinning her to her car once they reach it. When she finally remembers why they came outside she has the imprint of the door handle in her ass but can't bring herself to care. As she fishes her keys out and retrieves her luggage Booth does his very best to be thoroughly distracting. He is quite successful, and she catches her breath perched on the trunk of her car with him standing in between her legs. She slides off the trunk to the ground, and gets caught up in another kiss. An inebriated passerby shouts, "Oy, get a room!" Bren contracts her abdominals and returns to an upright position from bent backward over the trunk, holding Booth in a loose embrace.

"Let's get my bag to my room," Temperance says, bending over to pull her plastic room key from her beach bag. Booth audibly groans, picks up her suitcase with one hand and wraps his other arm around her waist, guiding her towards the hotel.

He drops the suitcase when she pushes him against a wall just inside the secondary casino doors and deposits the room key in his pocket before kissing the stuffing out of him. She leads him to a stairwell. He's glad, because the management would probably kick them out if they tried the things they do on every landing in the elevator. Eventually they reach the fifth floor, despite the eleven landings along the way.

It is only 50 yards from the stairs to her hotel room, but the journey takes a quarter of an hour, preoccupied as they are. They lose track of the number of hotel guests and employees that glare, tell them to get a room, or look terribly shocked at the placement of hands. Finally, finally they are at her door, and she pulls the key out of his pocket, fumbling to put it in the slot without breaking the kiss. The lock beeps and she grabs the handle, her smile of triumph quickly turning to horror as she falls backwards into the room and onto the floor, bringing Booth with her.

-X-

They both laugh hysterically; once he's ascertained that his weight didn't crush her. Booth helps her up, and then backs up a pace, peppering her face with kisses. "Bren," he says, followed by a kiss on the bridge of her nose, "I'm not coming in."

"I thought your room had three other people in it?" she said breathlessly.

"It does," Booth answers, trying to distract her with more kisses.

"And out in the hallway seems awfully forward," she nips at his lips, delaying his reply.

"I'm not an exhibitionist."

She grabs the sides of his face to halt the thoroughly distracting kissing, "Why aren't we having sex?"

"Because I want to see you when my tour is over."

"You will," she interrupts, turning the hold on his face into a caress.

"If we have sex, all the mystery is gone. You'll know. But if you don't know, it will torment you – that you don't know, and you'll need to know. You'll have to see me."

"That is really sucky reasoning," she replies in between small kisses to his neck and clavicles.

"Sucky?"

"It seemed like a good adjective," she punctuated this with a long-drawn out kiss with plenty of tongue, "Come on, just one orgasm – each," she cajoles.

"Bren, Temperance, what makes you think I could stop at one?"

"You have excellent self-control."

"Not enough to stop at one," and then he kissed her so thoroughly that she lost the thread of the argument.

"Eight tomorrow?" she queries.

"Seven," he replies with a goofy grin on his face, before tearing himself away.

-X-

AN: Currently accepting titles for more of Mr. J. Hodgins 'pulp, crap, crime' novels. Please let me know what you think of the day at the beach – I'm an insecure fanfic author, and each reviewer gets his or her very own chance to win a set of life-size, cardboard cutout Bones cast members*. Also, any spelling, grammatical, or cannon errors – please let me know so I can fix them.

*Some restrictions may apply.


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